#but that man is the closest to an academic scholar artist as well ever get

[bbqhooligan]

ok ill put it into words this time. whats really funny is that Kendrick has been talking about these topics for a decade but it just so happens that most artists dip their toes into a little bit of "Oh My God This Industry Is Eating Me Alive I Sold My Soul To The Devil And I Cant Trust Anyone Here" to some extent (and then continue on to thrive in said table of demons). and people mistakenly put his intertwined criticisms of racism in america and black capitalism working together, the money worship and lack of substance, disconnect from the roots of the art form and by extension the culture, his peers failing in both individual and societal responsibilities, all that. and Kendrick decided, no, youre not getting me, and put theory to practice and Showed what his art is meant to do and thats CRAZY. first rapper to prove his theories can apply to real life. Law Of Kendrick.

hes been going double thread about it too, the whole drake beef he built upon his ideas slowly by going Artistic Criticism, Social Criticism, Moral Criticism and reinforced Meet The Grahams serious sexual allegations with Not Like Us. now with Watch The Party Die hes underlining the central themes like hes a teacher who is going to quiz you. he hasnt been battling drake at all, he called him to the board and has been in uninterrupted eye contact with us the whole time, explaining and analyzing drake from various lenses. he wants you to understand and agree with his artistic vision and lead and inspire a new wave.

[anneesfollesrpg]

                  「JOHN "JACK" REUEL KERR LAMBTON 」

                   34  •  ARTIST  •  TAKEN BY LIL

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of death, war, homophobia

DIRECT FROM LE PETIT JOURNAL:

What can we say? Le Honorable John Reuel Kerr Lambton (ah choo!)’s reputation precedes him. Not whispers but roars. A supposed scholar who leaves ruined society women and ballerinas in his wake, a frequenter of both Le Clair de Lune and Le Ciel. His bestseller is called The Patient Man, but he seems to be the most impatient one we’ve ever seen. Rumor is his most recent literary effort is not so popular with the British War Office and is to be translated to be released here in the city of scandal instead. But will we take London’s cast offs? How long until mummy has to leave her latest benefit to clean up little Jack’s mess? Or will she call in the big guns with the war hero elder brother too? 

ABOUT:

Jack Lambton simply refused to grow up. He was too “soft” to go hunting with his father and older brother Cam, so he stayed at home with his mother, reading with her and to her, and sometimes, if he was lucky, she’d read to him right back. He loved stories and continued to love them all the way to Oxford. This bookishness was an allowed quirk of second son of the British gentry, especially when the oldest was already in the military. But Jack did love one more thing. Well, two things. 

It began at Eton. So very accomplished, his teachers said. But he and young Master Swinburne are just a bit too familiar. Do look into that, Lady Lambton, if you don’t mind. And she did and she fretted. Jack getting caught in flagrante with his childhood friend, a society lady-to-be, during the family Christmas party should have perhaps been a comfort. But the boy seemed to be choosing from both sides and continued to do so. Worse, he was almost puckish about it. Pushing limits as he always did. Telling tales.  

Uni certainly didn’t help on that front. His friends were artists and academics and he loved them in whatever way they allowed. Jack’s closest friend, Reginald Edwards, was a Welsh surgeon in training. He was a scientist, but he loved stories as much as Jack did. Sure they kissed sometimes, but the friendship was what mattered. Then came the war. 

Jack’s older brother was already high ranked, and Jack was technically exempt. Greatest minds of Britain, future professor of Anglo-Saxon poetry, etc. But Reg was going to go, and where Reg went, Jack went. Their friends followed suit. Jack was a Second Lieutenant by virtue of his pedigree, so he pulled some strings to get them stationed together. It was supposed to be easy. Quick.  

But it wasn’t.  

Jack lost people. Everyone, really, except Thomas Brannon, his new American friend, brothers bred in foxholes. He saw Reg when he could, but a man with Reg’s skills belonged at the field hospital not the front. Their time became more and more precious until eventually, Jack found himself quite despondent if he didn’t see him. When Jack and Thomas were pinned down together, he handed Thomas a letter to give to Reg. Words of almost-love from a man who loved words. 

After a tense exchange with his brother (and now commanding officer), Jack found himself sent away from Reg due to troop movements. Technically away from danger. But something felt punitive. Personal. He kept his head down. He did the bloody work and told his men fairy and ghost stories to keep their spirits up. One day he went over, and he didn’t come back. It was in the last push, and Thomas assured himself that if Jack was still alive, he would be recovered. But the Germans were routed and the armistice signed without word. 

Jack lay in the mud a long time, pinned by the weight of stone and barbed wire. When he woke, his right arm was gone below the bicep. Well, he said to the pretty nurse with a slightly pained smirk. I write with my left anyway. His brother Cam was not so lucky. They were both sent back to the ancestral estate to recover, where Jack found out that Reg had been killed by chlorine gas on the last day of the war. Jack insisted he was fine but his stump itched and so did his head. More and more he couldn’t stand the way his family talked about his mourning of his “friend.” He told them he’d loved Reg and then stormed off to Paris, supposedly to write a book. 

Instead, he met a soloist at the Palais Garnier named Nadja Babineaux. She loved stories too and he loved her profoundly. His very relieved mother gave him one of the lesser family jewels to propose with, and Jack had every intention. Then Nadja had her first starring role in Giselle, and he realized that much like inconstant Albrecht, he had promised himself to two people: one living, one dead. He knew that like Giselle, Nadja would forgive him. But he didn’t deserve it. So he left. 

He holed up in Edinburgh and did write the book. It had adventure and romance and just the slightest bit of magic. It went to print and did well. Well enough to garner a French translation, which Jack stubbornly handled himself. It was a good break from his magnum opus, an angry, frightening and more than slightly queer little fantasy horror novel that was a clear indictment of the war. 

Which Cam and the British high command didn’t appreciate. Publication was quashed. Jack was devastated. Until his French publisher told him Paris was so lovely in spring…

CONNECTIONS:

The Savior: Even if you’re not sure why they put up with you and your tumbling moods, you’re grateful they do. You often find yourself hovering around their commissariat at the end of the night, hoping they’ll be free to dally over a quiet drink.

The Hammer: Many forget the service of such as she - you certainly can’t. You worry for her, working so hard. And you appreciate her aid, when you find yourself in need. Honestly, a good friend can be a kind of medicine all its own.

The Poet: Their work touched you, more than anything you’d read in years; there’s such hope there, and humanity. You’ve heard they’re in Paris, these days, and it would be such an honour to make their acquaintance. 

Faceclaim & Pronouns: Jamie Bell, he/him

The Novelist is taken by Lil, they/them.